Reclamation - Chapter 33

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Hi Everyone! Thanks for all the suggestions. As always, I look forward to reading your comments. ;o)

Sorry for the late post. OMG, it’s Friday evening already! I’ve been sleeping away the day. Hopefully, this chapter isn’t too mild.

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Chapter 33

The chamber lay in shadow, the heavy curtains drawn shut to temper the afternoon light. A hush filled the air, broken only by the restless turning of the woman upon the great four-poster bed. Lady Catherine stirred fitfully, muttering fragments of words, her hands clenching at the coverlet.

Beside her, a maid sat stiffly upon a small chair, hands twisting in her lap, her face pale with apprehension. At Lady Matlock’s entrance, the maid rose at once and curtsied.

“My lady,” she whispered, “she stirs often—tossing, muttering, striking her pillow. I dared not leave her.”

“You did right,” Lady Matlock replied with composed kindness. “Go now and bring a fresh basin of cool water. When you return, remain silent unless I call for you.”

The maid fled with evident relief, her footsteps retreating down the corridor. Lady Matlock advanced with unhurried steps and paused at the bedside. Catherine’s face was flushed, her lips moving while words emerged in jagged fragments.

“—impertinent girl—no sense of duty—Darcy will obey me—” Her voice rose shrill upon the last word, then fell again into a rasping murmur.

Lady Matlock seated herself with quiet dignity, smoothing the coverlet with one hand. “Catherine, you are safe. You are at Matlock House. Rest. All is well.”

At the sound of her sister-in-law’s voice, Catherine’s eyes flew open. For a moment, they darted wildly, unfocused; then recognition sharpened into fury.

“Henrietta?” Her voice rasped, yet it carried its old imperious tone. “Why are you here? Where is my daughter? Where is Anne?”

“She is resting in her room, my dear,” Lady Matlock replied evenly. “You must conserve your strength. The physician ordered you to stay in bed after you fainted during your diatribe…”

“Laudanum! Did you give that vile-tasting drug to me?” Catherine cried, struggling upright against the pillows, though her movements were weak. Her eyes blazed nonetheless. “Poison to silence me! Was it your doing? To hush me like some raving lunatic? I will not be drugged into submission!”

Lady Matlock folded her hands in her lap, her voice level, her composure unshaken. “No one seeks to silence you, Catherine. You were overwrought and fainted. You needed sleep to put you to rights. Be thankful you weren’t injured when you fainted.”

Catherine would not be soothed. Her hands clenched the bedclothes as she hissed, “Do not patronize me, Henrietta. Something has been contrived while I slept. I can feel it. There is deceit in this house; plots are being hatched against me and mine. Where is Darcy? Where is Richard? Why do they hide from me?”

Lady Matlock’s calm did not waver, though her heart quickened. She had expected fury, and she had not misjudged.

“Those men are not children who hide from anybody,” she replied firmly. “They are occupied downstairs with your brother. When you feel better, you’re welcome to join us in the parlor. You must not excite yourself further.”

“Occupied?” Catherine’s voice cracked like a whip. “Occupied in what? Scheming with Anne, no doubt. Filling her head with rebellion, turning her against me, against her duty! You cannot deny it. I know her weakness… her impressionable nature. She would never dare resist my desires unless others urged her to it.”

Lady Matlock leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering but firm with steel. “Anne is not a child, Catherine. She has her own mind, though you have never chosen to see it. She deserves your respect, as does every soul under God. At present, she is sleeping, not scheming. You are the schemer, not that sweet young lady.”

For the first time, Catherine faltered, her lips snapping shut. But the pause was brief, no more than a breath, before her fury surged again.

“Respect?” she spat. “Respect for a sickly child who vexes me with her frailties? Respect for a creature too weak to fulfill her destiny? Nonsense, Henrietta! You think yourself wise, but you meddle where you ought not. This house is mine to command until Anne is wed to Darcy, and no one—no one—shall thwart me!”

Lady Matlock’s gaze did not shift. “You are mistaken, Catherine. This is my husband’s house. You are his guest. You will remember it or find yourself cast out.

“Furthermore, if you refer to that fictitious cradle engagement, Darcy will never marry Anne. Anne is dying, and you deprive her of peace in her last days. Why can’t you leave the children alone? Darcy is courting Elizabeth Bennet, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Richard is courting Jane Bennet, and we rejoice that he has finally found a lady worthy of him. You deprived Anne of a season, forcing her to remain hidden in Kent. Nothing can alter her situation now. Relinquish your foolish fantasies, lest the family abandon you entirely. Matlock himself is weary of your histrionics and your constant interference in the lives of others.”

The two women locked eyes, the silence stretching between them. Catherine’s breath came in ragged gasps, her face mottled scarlet with fury. Lady Matlock, serenely resolute, sat unmoved, a pillar against the storm.

At last, Catherine collapsed against the pillows, her strength drained by her own tirade. Yet her eyes glistened with suspicion.

“You think you have triumphed,” she whispered hoarsely. “But I will find the truth of how I came to be in bed after going to the study. And when I do… There will be a reckoning.”

Lady Matlock reached for the clean cloth and cool water the maid had brought. She dampened the cloth and pressed it gently to Catherine’s brow. “Rest, Catherine,” she murmured. “There will be time enough for all things when you are well.”

Catherine closed her eyes, though her lips still moved with muttered fragments, her mind clearly unquiet. Lady Matlock patiently sat beside her, still as stone, knowing this was only the beginning of Catherine’s accusations. Catherine’s memory would return in full, and when it did, shouting and recrimination would once again disturb the house until they could remove her, short of locking her in the attic or Bedlam itself.

At length, Lady Matlock drew her watch discreetly from her pocket, noting the hour. With a final glance at Catherine’s restless figure, she rose and silently left the room. Dinner would be served soon. If fortune were kind, Catherine might sleep a little longer and leave the rest of the family to eat their meal in peace.

∞

Downstairs, in the parlor, the air was heavy with the mingled scents of tea, paper, and the faint trace of lavender. The conversation had grown quiet after Mr. Jones’s departure, each man absorbed in his thoughts.

Lord Matlock stood at the hearth, one arm braced against the mantel, his gaze fixed on the flames, though his mind was elsewhere. The lines at his brow seemed deeper, carved by the burden of family and duty. Darcy sat nearby, elbows resting on his knees, his expression grave. Richard leaned against the window frame, arms crossed, his jaw set in that familiar soldier’s restraint that often concealed unease.

At length, Lord Matlock exhaled heavily. “The doctor assures me she will recover her senses soon enough. I confess, I almost wish she would not… peace in this house has been a rare commodity since she crossed its threshold.”

Richard gave a short, humorless laugh. “If by ‘recover her senses’ he means she will soon begin dictating the order of our lives again, then I wish he’d provided a means to keep her insensible for another day or two.”

Darcy looked up sharply. “She is still our aunt, Richard.”

“Yes,” Richard returned quietly, “and she has my sympathy.”

Lord Matlock cast his son a warning look but said nothing. The moment passed, though the edge of tension remained sharp in the air.

“Lady Matlock is with her?” Darcy asked after a pause.

“Of course,” his uncle replied. “There’s no one better to manage Catherine when she’s in one of her states. I sent a maid and told the housekeeper to keep the corridor quiet. If we are fortunate, she may rest until evening.”

Richard turned from the window. “Do you think she will accept what she’s been told about Anne? About the Bennet sisters?”

Lord Matlock shook his head slowly. “No. Catherine has spent a lifetime mistaking her will for divine decree. To have it opposed now, and by those she once commanded, will not sit easily. But it had to be done. Henrietta is right: this nonsense about Darcy and Anne must end, once and for all.”

Darcy’s eyes dropped to the carpet. He could not suppress the mixture of guilt and relief that accompanied his uncle’s words. “I wish it could have been done more gently. She will see it as a betrayal.”

Lord Matlock’s voice softened. “Perhaps. But you cannot live your life according to her delusions. You owe her courtesy, not obedience.”

Richard came to stand near his cousin, his tone pragmatic, though his eyes betrayed sympathy. “You did nothing wrong, Darcy. The fault lies with those who encouraged her to dream of a match that was never possible. Anne has never been strong enough for marriage, and Aunt Catherine, well, Catherine has lived too long on pride and fiction. Those responsible for her continuing the delusion hold more responsibility for this state of affairs.” Richard shot an accusatory glance at his father.

A silence settled. The clock ticked each second. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open, perhaps a servant carrying word from upstairs. All three men looked up instinctively.

It was only a footman with fresh tea.

When the man departed, Lord Matlock poured himself a cup with deliberate calm. “We shall dine early this evening. If Henrietta thinks Catherine can bear it, she will join us. If not, her tray will be sent up. In either case, I will not have another scene under this roof tonight.”

Richard muttered, “I’ll drink to that.”

Darcy managed a faint smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He recalled the look in Lady Catherine’s eyes before she’d collapsed—the mixture of rage and wounded pride, the conviction that the world conspired against her. He wondered whether, in some quiet corner of her heart, she still believed herself the heroine of a wronged destiny.

Lord Matlock set down his cup and straightened. “When she wakes fully, Henrietta will send word. Until then, we keep our peace. No more talk of engagements or letters from Hertfordshire tonight.”

Richard inclined his head in acknowledgment, though the glint of mischief in his eyes betrayed his thought: He could order silence, but he could not order peace.

The three men fell again into thoughtful quiet. Outside, dusk pressed softly against the windows, and the shadows deepened in the corners of the room.

Somewhere above them, in the dim chamber where Lady Catherine De Bourgh lay tossing in troubled sleep, the storm paused.